AB and I stopped into the amazing Flower Child today for a bit of gift giving inspiration (and of course, wanting to buy every houseware item in the store; AB wants a bongo, but knows why he cannot have one). I could browse the vintage ornament collection for hours — and I will depending on how long the decorations remain up after the holidays — his attention span was not as great as mine.
And we were both running on major hangovers.
A few things we came across: no shit — a framed Bob Seger album, several gorgeous nudie black and whites of Bettie Page (loved her Christmas-inspired photograph as well), a San Francisco spinning streetcar music box that I remembered my grandmother having when I was a kid, scary coconut heads, oh-so-many necklaces (want, want, want) and one very sweet humungous lamp.
Then, downstairs, AB found the vintage Playboys. As expected, he complained about the lack of pictures and the excess of articles. Then, upon finding an issue from the 70, and assured of bevy of great bush pics, he unfolds the centerfold, with a hole in the magazine where the vagina should be. Disappointed, he “awwww”d and complained that someone “ripped out her vagina.”
I laughed along with it, then remarked, “Or something else.”
Hee Hee.
He immediately dropped the magazine. I love being 12 with him.
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